Someday I'll Breathe Again
by Ancora-LeFay
Summary: After Draco saves Hermione from Malfoy manor, the two end up on the run together and an unexpected friendship forms. When they end up at the Final Battle, can Draco get her to trust him in time for when it matters most?
1. Prologue

**A/N: Hello again! This ought to be a long(er) one, I love writing about these two. Sorry in advance for any spellling mistakes - I don't have spellcheck on the program I use (which is the only program my computer has...). Who doesn't have spellcheck, you might ask? Well, i'm still stuck in the 90's, along with the rest of Hogwarts. I don't need spelling, I have magic. So ha.  
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**Disclaimer: This is me, owning nothing.**

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><p>The only sound was her heartbeat, thumping loudly in defiance of her oncoming death.<p>

She wished she could be braver, like Harry. She knew he would face death head on when it came time, because it would be the right thing to do. He would be scared, but he would face things with a nobel grace, a calm acceptance - and she just couldn't do that. She wasn't that strong. She wished she had his courage right now, as she is dragged by a sharp hand in her hair towards the center of the room.

The room is cold and she is thrown to the floor, her knuckles bruising instantly from the impact. There is dirt caked onto her nails, cracked and bent, and her hands are riddled with cuts and bruises that continue up her arms. She feels her hair, matted and rough, covering her face like a screen. Good. No one should see her now. She wants them to remember her like she had been, not the stranger she had become.

Because she's not brave. She's clever - and it's not much good being clever when you're about to die. And she was going to die, she knew it -she knew as soon as Bellatrix had kept her.

_"All... all except for the mudblood."_

Ron - her Ron - had screamed and protested, begged to be kept instead; and though she wished she could tell him not to, that it was useless, she hadn't stopped him trying.

Because Hermione was scared.

She didn't want to die.

Not until the pain started. Then she wished death's sweet oblivion would take her quickly, life could never be good, not with these screams echoing through the air - her screams.  
>There's no pain in darkness.<p>

She screamed and begged and pleaded, her eyes screwed shut in agony. Her throat felt raw from screaming and her muscles weak from thrashing. If nothing else, she would put up some kind of fight. She owed Harry and Ron that much.  
>She felt the many pairs of eyes of her audience in the manor locked on the scene, but couldn't look up to meet them. Right now, there was nothing but her and Bellatrix. Her and death.<br>Bellatrix continued, getting her sick pleasure from Hermione's pain, at the same time her anger only growing from the lack of information.

_"How did you get into my vault?" _ Bellatrix had shrieked, her voice echoing through the manor.

Maybe Hermione was a little braver than she thought. The words came clear through the pain, a last attempt to save those she loved,

_"We've never been inside your vault... It isn't the real sword! It's a copy, just a copy!"_

But Bellatrix didn't believe her. And now she was going to die, die at the hands of this crazed woman, not a brave death but one filled with overwhleming agony and failure and she didn't even get to say goodbye -

A crash. Everything stops.

The next thing Hermione knew, Bellatrix is thrown off with a bang and slumps down the wall, unconsious. A strong hand grabs her waist and pulls her upright, and she hears a whisper in her ear, at first soft, grow panicked; outraged yells and anger surrounding them; and the familiar feeling of being forced through a tight tube, the air squeezed out by an iron grip -

The faint rustle of leaves and the light of the sun shines in her eyes before the darkness takes her.


	2. Chapter 1

**A/N: Hello, again. I'm certainly on a writing streak - unfortunately, I don't expect on being able to update this quickly in the future. I'll try for a weekly basis, but I can't make any promises.  
>(by the way, the line slashes are like thoughtPOV changes, not necessarily scene changes.)  
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**Reviews are love.**

**enjoy!**

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><p>She awoke to the sound of birds and the familiar rustle of wind through trees.<p>

Keeping her eyes closed firm, Hermione catalogues every limb and part of her. She feels her mouth curl into a small frown, confused. It was all there. Hermione could feel from her fingertips to her toes, her nose tickling from her bushy hair as it stuck up around her face. And she was definitely lying down, on something somewhat soft no less - she could feel her limbs sink into the surface and relax slightly. Her frown curved more.

She was alive.  
>That wasn't right. She had died last night, Bellatrix had killed her. Hadn't she?<p>

Slowly, Hermione stirred, the sharp aching in her limbs startling. Her teeth clench when she tries to sit up - the dizziness is overwhelming, sending a searing pain through to her head. She brings her hand up to clutch at it but stops suddenly with a gasp - her right arm _hurt,_ it felt like someone had taken a knife to it.  
>Which Bellatrix probably had done.<p>

With that, everything, all the memories of the last day, came rushing back; the snatchers, getting caught and brought to Malfoy Manor, Harry and Ron getting taken away, Bellatrix -

Hermione stops. Shakes her head. Somethings are better left unremembered. Not that she will be forgetting last night anytime soon. Not that she could.

But after Bellatrix, what had happened?  
>Hermione tries to sit up again, slowly, but is forced back down by the dizzy spell. She sighs, trying to remember. She had been so certain that it was the end, that she was going to die. That the arms around her when the pain had stopped were surely Death's, come to take her away.<p>

But here she was.

Out of sheer habit, her mind begins formulating a logical list.

Things she knew: Well, she had been surrounded by enemies, alone and trapped and in so much pain, Ron and Harry prisoner downstairs -  
>That was it! Ron had saved her!<br>Hermione can feel her heart glow at the revelation, and a smile tugs at the corner of her lips. She allows herself to relax, warm in the knowledge that though she was not untouched or out of pain, but she was _safe_, Ron had saved her, she was -

"I wouldn't get too comfy if I were you, Granger."

Hermione's eyes flew open.

No. _No._ No no no no no, this couldn't be, that voice -

She throws herself up, ignoring the sharp tugs of pain that shoot through her, and finds her eyes meeting those of Draco Malfoy.

He smirks.

She faints.

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><p>Draco sighs and glances back down to his book as the girl falls back, her head landing on the pillow with a slight muffled <em>thunk.<em> Shaking his head in distaste, he leans into the chair, content with the silence. His thoughts wandered.

Girl was too kind a word. After all, it was just Granger.

Hermione Granger. The girl he just saved from his deranged aunt. The girl he had left his home and family for, putting his own neck on the line. Potentially resulting in a long, painful death sooner than he'd prefer.

Now why the hell did he do that?

A frown forms on his lips as he tries very hard to turn back to the book he'd been reading. It was quite a good book, one of his favourites - he had been surprised to find it in the rugged old tent he'd fished from her bag. With a reluctant grimace, Draco had been forced to admit it was a clever bit of spellwork- the undetectable extension charm was seriously tricky to do properly. Maybe all that bookworming she'd done in school had actually been worth something.

He shakes his head sharply, determined to return to his book without distraction.

It took him a solid couple minutes to realize he had been re-reading the same sentence the whole time, and still none of it sunk in. He sighed again, and threw the book towards the other end of the tent.

Draco glances over at her motionless body, a natural expression of distaste forming out of years of habit. Catching himself before he can utter another sigh, because it's really not a respectable Malfoy thing to do, he uncrosses his legs and throws his head into his hands.

He doesn't know why he did it. He just knows that he did.  
>But somehow Draco didn't think Granger would be so understanding when she finally woke up.<p>

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><p>Groggily, still all too disoriented, Hermione reawakens.<p>

Then she remembers why she fainted in the first place.

Her first reaction is to reach for her wand, and her arm snaps out instinctivly towards her side where she always keeps it. Her searching hand meet air, and she becomes more frantic, throwing the sheet atop her off in a haste.

"Looking for something?"

Hermione freezes. Slowly, her eyes rise to meet the boy's across the room. He's sitting there relaxed, legs draped lazily over one arm of the chair, voice mocking, and in his right hand - twirling - is Hermione's wand. His eyes never waver from hers. They're stone cold.

"Give it here, Malfoy."

She was trying to make herself sound as menacing as possible, which was a little difficult considering her throat was cut raw. It came out sounding more like a hoarse kitten.

He snorts and rolls his eyes. "Not likely," he drawls, leaping up from the chair, "I'd rather like to live a while longer, thank you."

She stares at him as he begins pacing slowly away from the recently occupied seat. Her eyes narrow, and she spits out words like they're poison, "Why am I here?"

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><p>Draco pauses, and his eyes finally avert from hers. They glance around the room, never settling on anything, almost like they're looking for something. He takes a deep breath and returns to face her,<p>

"God if I know. I guess you're just lucky I was feeling charitable, didn't really fancy getting your filthy blood stained on my floors." He speaks with a forced calm, clearly trying to sound bored. But one look at her expression and he can tell he's not fooling anyone.

He throws his hands up in frustration, trying himself to come up with some kind of explanation. At least, one that made him sound reasonably sane.

But what excuse could he have for saving the girl who he had made his personal mission to make life a living hell? Who was nothing but a dirty mudblood, a useless frizzy haired frump. The girl who he hated.

For a moment, she almost thinks he's going to answer her. But his eyes just pick a random point on the wall beside her as he mutters,  
>"Take the explanation, Granger, it's the only one you're getting."<p>

"I refuse."

His eyes snap over to look at her. She looks angry, suspicious, and all too stubborn for his liking. Draco doesn't answer.

"Fine. If you're not going to tell me, I'm getting out of here, now."

She throws her leg over the side of the cot and hoists herself up. She stumbles like a drunkard for a few paces before having to grab a post for support. She mutters quietly to herself, "Where exactly is here, anyways?" He pretends not to hear.

Draco stuffs his hands into his pockets and casually strolls over. "I wouldn't try apparation, Granger, it might not work out too well for your health. Wait, nevermind - go right ahead."

Granger glares over at him, her walk still unsteady. She clutches at her support and says sharply,

"You seem awful uncaring considering you just saved my life."

He frowns and looks away awkwardly. Quickly pacing back and forth, agitated, Draco begins muttering to himself. All the while Granger watches him with suspicious eyes. He is seemingly taking part in an internal debate, and suddenly spins around to face her.

"You want an explanation? Fine. I saved you because I was sick of watching people die in front of me. Because I couldn't take watching another person scream in my own home, watch them beg for death in agony, watch the sick pleasure _she _gets from doing it. I saved you because I needed to leave, and you were just a good excuse!"

He pants, suddenly exhausted. He looks over and sees Granger recoiled, fear clearly etched across her face, and realizes he's been shouting.

Draco also has a sudden sense of relief wash over him. Everything he said had been true - he hadn't saved Granger because of who she was, he had done it for himself.  
>Not that he would ever have done anything for a mudblood in the first place. The very idea curved his lip in disgust.<p>

He sighed, (cursing inwardly. It was a habit he was going to have to break) and crossed towards the door of the tent. At the last moment he says over his shoulder,

"Don't apparate. Your wounds haven't healed, you'll just end up dead. Then I'll have to deal with the bloody boy-who-lived trying to avenge you."

With that he exits the tent, leaving a thoroughly confused Hermione behind.


	3. Chapter 2

**A/N: This actually was really tricky to write. Well, when I say tricky, I mean I found more reasons to put off doing it than I usually do. I'm an expert procrastinator. Anyways - this is about my average chapter length. Sorry if some think it's too long or short, but it's whats gonna happen!**

**Every time someone reviews, an angel gets its wings. Merry (early) Christmas! Or, uh, happy holidays. Stupid political correctness, making life more difficult to wish people nice things...  
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**This is me, still owning nothing. Disclaimer: HP is all J.K. Rowling, the lucky duck.  
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**enjoy!**

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><p>This made little to no sense whatsoever.<p>

And if there was one thing that bothered Hermione above all else, it was when things didn't make sense. Or when people incorrectly filed library books back into the shelves. But that didn't really apply to this situation.

She would go talk to him.  
>Yes, she would march herself over there, snatch her wand from his stupid twirling hand and demand answers to her questions. Show Malfoy exactly what she was made of, that he wasn't messing with just anybody, that -<p>

The scorching pain that flashes through her veins becomes too much, and Hermione is forced to return to the cot. Spots of light dot her vision, and the world is inexplicably spinning around her. Or perhaps that's just her. She ducks her head down between her legs and takes three calming deep breates. One, two, three. She feels the air travel through to her lungs, but none of the usual accompanying relief. She just ends up sounding like she's wheezing.

Alright, so maybe not _march_ over, and maybe not _demand _answers...

Plan B. Wait until ability to stand has returned, _then_ go talk to Malfoy.

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><p>He heard Granger before he saw her. It was rather hard to miss - the growing <em>stomp stomp stomp <em>of her feet, the sound of twigs and branches snapping and breaking beneath her. But even as she stood directly in front of him, (mind you it was a good 10 feet away), Draco ignored her studiously. He continued his systematic sorting of the twigs and leaves in front of him as he sat, leaning his back against one of the sturdier trees surrounding the tent. Green, Red, Brown, Brown, twig, Gr-

"Where are we, exactly?"

Granger's voice is curt and harsh, and she speaks briskly as though she would really rather not have to ask any of this in the first place. Which would be fine by him, not that anyone seemed to care.

Draco doesn't answer. He only returns to his efficient, albeit useless sorting of the forest scraps. From the corner of his eye, because he's really not paying her any attention whatsoever, he sees Granger purse her lips and cross her arms stubbornly.

"Malfoy," She snaps, and he finally glances up at her with a successfully lazy looking sneer. He answers with a mocking politeness, "Yes, Granger?"

Her eyes narrow, marring their natural hazel colour into dark. Not that he'd noticed. Her eyes could be fluorescent purple for all he cared. She snarls quietly with a convicted viciousness he didn't know she possessed,  
>"I asked you a question."<p>

Now, really, he didn't think she had any way to back up this fierce appearance of hers. Granger was wandless and weak, and he could easily take her in a physical fight (he pushes away the memory of a particularly embarassing punch to the face in third year), not to mention the fact that she had been tortured the night before and was still recovering. So frankly, she wasn't really in any place to be making demands.

But Draco really didn't feel like dealing with a stubborn, angry Granger right now (or any Granger at all, thank you very much), so he figured the sooner her questions were answered, the sooner she might leave him alone.

Returning to his sorting, having noticed a particularly blood red leaf that seemed out of place this time of year, Draco answers her first question with a calm cool, not bothering to meet her gaze,

"West coast of Scotland, not too sure on specifics. Far enough away from anything or anyone that matters."

He apparently shocked her with his compliance to answer. His lips twitch with a supressed smirk - he's careful to hold it back. Somehow, he didn't think Granger would react too well if she thought he was lying. Which he wasn't. Yeah, it surprised him, too.

Her lip quivers in suspicion and her fists clench, but she presses on.

"Why am I here?"

Draco can't help but smirk this time.  
>"Well, we all face an identity crisis at some point or another, Granger, though I'm not too sure now is an appropriate time, and I'm not really who you should be as-"<p>

"You know what I mean." Her bushy hair shakes as her head whips towards his furiously. He almost thought he saw a slight blush spread through her cheeks, but it was probably just the cold.  
>She is clearly not in the mood for this. But she owed him, and he would take his own sweet time in any answers he wanted to give. He pulls his eyes to meet hers, careful not to allow his gaze to waver,<p>

"I gave you an explanation already. Or is that mass of a bird's nest surrounding your head imparing your hearing so much that I need repeat myself?"

He swears she almost rolls her eyes. But that would be far too familiar a gesture, a sign of weakness in her eyes. She continues, her voice holding a touch less venom. It's hardly noticable, but Draco hears it.

"I'm going home."

Draco really does roll his eyes. "Apparently it's not your ears but your brain that's impared. You can't apparate, I'm certainly not going to, and we're a hundred miles from anywhere. Next question." He prompts.

Silence. After a few moments, he glances back up towards her, surprised by the lack of questions.

She seems to slump visibly before him, like all her strength has left her, and she plops herself down with a lack of grace onto the forest floor. Her head slouches forward, the bush of hair covering her face. Her hands in her lap, her back bent over and forward. After a second he can see it shaking, erratic rises and falls accompanied by harsh, irregular exhales.  
>It takes him a moment to realize she's crying.<p>

Draco looks away awkwardly. He hated crying women. If a man cried, you punch him, tell him to grow up. Simple as that. Women, though, were so much trickier. You have to be, Draco grimaces, _sensitive. _Damn emotions. He had heard Granger cry plenty the previous night, but that was under torture and pain of death. There was a difference.

He sighs (cursing the stupid habit) and rises from his spot, overturning any and all of his sorted leaves and twigs. Wiping the dust and dirt from his pants, he walks over to where Granger is curled in on herself.

Damn proper Malfoy upraising. It's his mother's fault, really - the need to help an upset woman winning out over his ingrained digust of Mudbloods. He leans down and extends his hand. He mutters quietly,

"Come on, Granger, don't want to catch a cold on top of everything else."

Her head snaps up and he can see clearly now the red puffy eyes and tear tracks etched down her face. She looks at his hand the way one might regard a dead animal on the street. Lovely.

He wiggles his fingers impatiently, muttering briskly, "Silly girl, it won't bite."

She doesn't move. Eventually, after about ten incredibly awkward seconds of an apparent staring contest, he just reaches down, grabs her wrist and hoists her up. She immediately rips her arm away, and he raises his hands in a peacekeeping gesture. Like he said, he'd rather live a while longer.

Her glare never wavering, Granger stomps off back into the tent. When she reaches the door, or rather the flap that acts as a door, she enters and attempts to slam it behind her. All that happens is she loses her balance throwing all her weight into the slam, and topples over into the enterance.

Draco can't help it. He laughs.

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><p>The stupid, arrogant, annoying, confusing, idiotic <em>prat.<em> Hermione calls on every curse word she knows from her rather extensive brain, throwing them inwardly towards the blond on the other side of the door.

The blond who is still laughing at her fall.

She feels the blood rise to her cheeks but forces it away by sheer will. What did he think he was doing, the slimy git, any of this! It just.. it didn't make any sense! It was like dealing with a whole other person than the one Hermione had known and hated for nearly seven years - an equally annoying, prejudiced and rude person with an apparent politeness streak. Who did he think he was?

The answer came to her mind before she had even finished the thought - a Malfoy.

[origin Latin] _noun, _1. Slytherin house pureblood 2. Death eater 3. Bloody annoying as hell.

Yep. That about summed it up.

Finally picking herself up off the tent floor, Hermione wanders back through the familiar rooms. She spent so much time here, all those weeks with Harry and Ron. They seemed like years ago. Her mind goes back further to her years at Hogwarts, and she can feel her heart physically pull with longing. Those memories were so distant, they didn't seem real. Like a story that had happened to a long lost friend who had regailed them with a wholesome fondness.

Hermione missed home.

She sighed (something she had noticed Malfoy doing a lot. Had he always been so melancholic?) and paced around the room, her hands skimming tables and chairs, searching for the familiar touch. Her hand stops on a book, spread as though thrown, on a chair in the corner. She picks it up and glances at it briefly - it was one of her favourites. A wizarding author she had come across in her fourth year at school. Not a popular book, but brilliantly written.

Hermione picks it up and places it gently back on the shelf. While doing so, she hears the rustle of the door opening behind her. She spins around, still untrusting that the ferrect wouldn't curse her from behind.

Their eyes lock, and one last demand springs into Hermione's mind - one she's surprised she hadn't thought of eariler.

"I'd like my wand back now."

He isn't surprised, or at least if he is he does a good job of hiding it. Without breaking eye contact, he reaches into his pocket and slowly pulls out her wand. Still staring right into her eyes, the grey colour surprisingly piercing, he twirls the wand in his fingers just as he had done so annoyingly before. Then, he returns it to his pocket and smirks.

"No, but thanks for playing. Maybe next time. Or maybe not."

This was getting ridiculous. The whole situation was just becoming so absurd, Hermione could barely stomach it anymore. The last bits of her strength leave her in a gust, and she gives up.

She'll wait - it's not like he's going anywhere anytime soon, either; Death Eaters will be looking for them both, he's got nowhere to go. So, yes, she'll wait. Wait for her wand, her answers, her chance to get out of here and away from Malfoy. Wait,

For now.


	4. Chapter 3

**Your task - find the pun. **

**Sorry this took so long - I'm an expert at not writing. Your reward is a longer-ish chapter. And a pun. Love puns. Enjoy!**

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><p>They kept to themselves, mostly. Well, as much as they could considering the close quarters they shared. It's hard to avoid someone who sleeps ten feet from you, even if that's as far as they can get. When they couldn't avoid each other, contact was curt and cordial, a brief insult slipping in when necessary.<p>

Alright, it was always necessary.

But for heaven's sake, it was _Malfoy._

The same Malfoy that had been staring at her excessively for the past ten minutes. The only reason she hadn't confronted him yet was because, frankly, the sight was a little funny. Whenever she would sneak a glance at him, through her for once usefully thick hair, he would be opening and closing his mouth in intervals. He looked a little like an indecisive fish. Which Hermione reckoned he sort of was.

It appeared he was trying to say something but was struggling with how just to say it. She rolled her eyes, finally getting bored of the staring, and muttered, "Something on your mind, Malfoy?"

His mouth, at the time in open-fish mode, closed, and his eyes narrowed. Bringing himself to meet her gaze, only to find she had looked away, he responded curtly, "We need to leave. We've spent far too long in one place. I've no doubt they'll be looking for us, no point in making it easy for them."

Hermione closed her book and set it on the table. Uncrossing her legs, she leaned back and settled her hands into her lap.  
>"You have somewhere in mind? Hogwarts, maybe, with Snape? Perhaps the haunted house of a recently deceased great uncle? Or can I finally go <em>home<em>?" Her voice dripped with sarcasam, the annoyance nearly tangible in the air between them. But there was still that little bit of hope, that slight emphasis on _home_.

Across the room, Malfoy snorted slightly and gave her an obviously condesending look. "We've been through this, brainless; you want to try apparation, feel free. Don't blame me when you end up in pieces on the other side."

Oh, right. Point taken.

She paused, then gave a resigned nod. He continued,

"So we travel by foot. North, I reckon - don't want to run into any familiar faces."

She shuddered involuntarily. No, she reckoned they didn't. A thought occured to her, and she felt her nose scrunch in distaste. Travelling by foot. Injured. With Malfoy. In Scotland. And to top it off, more camping.

Oh, joy.

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><p>While Granger finished packing inside, Draco left the tent to remove the protective charms surrounding them. Muttering the counterspells lazily, the larger portion of his attention was spent ignoring the sharp tugs in his stomach.<p>

They had been gone three days, now - he hadn't mentioned it to Granger (why bother, really?), but she had been unconcious for nearly a day and a half. He had searched the tent and beaded bag thoroughly, but had found no trace of food. They were just lucky they had apparated somewhere near enough to a stream - without food they would last a while, but without water they both would have been dead by now. And it wasn't like he could exactly create any food - Gamp's third law of elemental transfiguration prevented, or rather explained away, any creation of food through magic.

Through magic. Draco groaned inwardly. He'd realized this as soon as his search had proved fruitless. They would have to make food the muggle way, which meant acquiring ingredients, and following instructions, which meant work.

Suck it up, Draco, it's like brewing a potion. He chanted this like a mantra every time the word 'muggle' came back into thought.

Draco's first attempt at cooking occured, thankfully, while Granger was still unconcious. Mudblood or not, anyone seeing that would have been extraordinarily embarassing. He reminded himself to try again - make something he actually knew how to this time. One of his many recipes.

And by many, of course, he means two.

A slight rustle behind him was the only alert to her presence. He finishes up the counterspells before stowing his wand safely back in his pocket. It clacked slightly - Granger's was in there, too. Draco turned to face her, prepared in a perfected mask of lazy boredom.

The tent was gone, and she was just stowing it back into that bag of hers. A cold wind blew from behind them and they paused a moment to listen. It echoed through the trees, a slight ominous howl.

He glanced over briefly only to catch her wrapping something hastily around her left forearm. He couldn't help but notice she was still pale, a sickly blueish hue, and looked rigid and fragile like glass, as if should the wind get any stronger she would topple over and shatter into a thousand little pieces. Dark purple patches formed on any exposed skin he could see; her neck and right cheek particularly. Her eyes had dark shadows underneath them as though she hadn't been sleeping, despite the fact that she'd slept nearly 24 hours straight. Eyes following hers, he saw what she was wrapping was gauze - must have been an especially nasty cut or bruise there.

His stomach involuntarily clenched and bile rose to the back of his mouth, but not from hunger pains. She finished, and he dropped his gaze. The sky suddenly seemed darker, the wind a little colder.

"Let's go." His voice is dark and low. He stows his hands in his pockets and begins moving forward, not checking to see if she followed. The wind blew stronger, sending a shiver through his spine.

He didn't like her. But he didn't like the bruises much, either.

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><p>And Hermione had thought camping difficult before.<p>

Before! Ha! Before, she had her two best friends (mind you very tense, angsty friends) to talk to, wasn't incredibly hungry and tired, and not to mention hadn't been in excruciating pain.

And she was.

Bruises covered her from head to toe. Cuts and scratches decorated her skin as though a child had taken a red pen to a white paper. Judging by her difficulty breathing, she had a few fractured or broken ribs. Her ankle was the worst for walking - every step sent daggers shooting up her leg. But these were nothing, _nothing_, compared to her arm.

She nearly cried when she saw it. But she couldn't, not with Malfoy so nearby and within earshot. She didn't remember when it had happened, but clearly, it did. Bellatrix left her a little reminder of exactly who, or more importantly _what_ Hermione was to the wizarding purists. She had covered it quickly with gauze, hoping to institute the old 'out of sight, out of mind' trick, but so far to no avail. Thinking back to Harry's scar, not the famous one but the words on his hand, carved there by Umbridge's cruel quill, Hermione relates it to her own wound. The old saying comes back to her from as a kid, _sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me._

Hermione would like to kick whoever said that. Clearly, they knew nothing of magic.

"Hurry up, Granger. God, it's like walking with a lame tortoise. An _old_ lame tortoise."

She'd like to kick him as well, while she's at it. Hermione flushes at the taunt and strains to move forward faster. Her body, particularly her ankle, protests violently, but she presses on. Not to be defeated by a few flesh wounds and a bloody Malfoy.

She hobbles forward until she's only feet behind him. That's all she's seen of him today - the back of a head. Not that she minded, really. Better than looking at his face.

They walk through the rest of the day and well into the evening. The wind only gets colder with every step, nearly painfully so. Thankfully, Hermione had grabbed a jumper from inside the tent before they'd left. Or three. It was only Malfoy, she didn't exactly have to worry about looking pretty, now, did she?

Finally, at a point where Hermione was _almost _willing to ask, plead, to stop, they did. Before she had to say anything. She nearly collapses right there on the rock, but has got just that last bit of will-power left not to.

"Here will do, for tonight. I'll get the charms, set up the tent."

Bossy and comanding like always, the git. But she's so exhausted she takes his tone and orders silently, accio-ing the tent from the depths of her beaded bag. She hears his lowered voice murmur around her protective spells, and is inexplicably relieved. She pushes the feeling off as relief of getting off her ankle.

Once the tent is up, she disappears into a cot, curling in around the blankets. She falls to sleep instantly. The last sound she hears is Malfoy's quiet murmur of spells keeping them safe.

* * *

><p>Her first thought waking up was that the tent had caught fire. Smoke entered her nostrils and flooded her senses. Hermione gagged and coughed, bolting upright in bed, her mind already racing through an escape plan.<p>

She hears the cluttered sound of pots and pans clanging together, accompanied by a deep cough and a muffled curse or two.

Finally, Hermione opens her eyes and takes in her surroundings. Through the not-so-bad-really haze of smoke, she sees Malfoy fanning his hand over a tray with a shrunken black lump in the middle of it.

"What are you doing?"

His head snaps up to meet hers, and she's careful to hold no animosity in her eyes. She has no bone to pick with him yet, at least not this early in the morning. He eyes her warily before returning to the lump.

"Cooking." He grunts.

Silence. She just sort of stares at him. Then she repeats slowly,

"Cooking."

Still silence. She continues, "You understand the basis of cooking is to produce food that is mildly edible?"

He glares at her silently before gesturing towards the kitchen table with his free hand. On it laid three perfectly baked loaves of bread, slightly brown and golden, the emmited warmth still hovering visibly above them.

"This was the exception." He nods to the vague dark lump on the tray before him quickly before chucking it out the side of the tent. Hermione rises from the bed and wanders in a daze, still staring, awe-struck, to the table. She can feel her mouth watering, her stomach growling, and is seriously considering abandoning all her lady-like manners and just diving headlong towards the scent and devouring it with her bare hands.

But she comes to her senses before that could happen. "You.. cook?"

Malfoy pauses, then nods once. "My skilled repetoire consists of two recipes. Thankfully I found ingredients for one."

Hermione is almost tempted to ask what the other was, but restrained herself. What did it matter, really? As she reached the table, pulling out a chair, she doesn't immediately grab a loaf from in front of her. To her own surprise, she waits for Malfoy to finish throwing out the bread attempt and come to join her.

* * *

><p>That didn't go well. Draco still feels the last reminants of smoke stick to his lungs from the last loaf he'd been baking. If only that silly girl hadn't started talking in her sleep, he wouldn't have gotten distracted and burnt the loaf -<p>

Speaking of Granger, why hadn't she eaten yet? He had, reluctantly, made this for her as well as himself - perhaps it wasn't as appealing to her as it was to him? But he saw how her mouth watered and her gaze never wavered from the food.

Draco discarded the thought and finished tossing the reminants of the Last Loaf, as he'd dubbed the charred piece of burnt flakes, outside. He turned to walk towards the table and met Granger's expectant glance. It clicked - she was waiting for him. How odd.

He hurried over to the table, quite hungry himself, and pulled out a chair. Sitting, he brings himself to look at her before going in for the food. She's staring back as well. He cuts a loaf into slices with a kitchen knife and his tastebuds scream as they watch the heat rise out of the fresh bread. He and Granger seem to agree telepathically and simultaniously reach forward for a piece each.

Draco takes a bite, and never in his life did he think bread could taste so good. He sees Granger close her eyes and relax, clearly enjoying it as well.

They each devour three pieces before forcing to a stop - Draco knows you can't force food into a shrunken stomach without repercussions. He'll be able to eat more soon, and so will she.

He sighs, (dammit!) and rises to leave. Maybe do some more reading, or look around where they've camped -

Draco suddenly glances back towards Granger at the sound. Her head is still bowed low, not meeting his eyes. But he's sure. He's very nearly sure he heard a small 'thank you'.

So he very nearly smiled.


	5. Chapter 4

This new regime kept up well enough for a few days.

They would spend a night, maybe two, in one place before one of them would decide it had been too long; they would then pack up and keep heading what Malfoy kept insisting as North, despite the fact Hermione was sure he'd never looked at a map in his life. Let alone a compass. Spoiled little fool.

Hermione was healing, but slowly. It appeared whatever injuries Bellatrix had inflicted were magic'd to make fixing them particularily tricky. She had even tried the essence of dittany, which she used sparingly in even the most dire situations, but even it's powers weren't enough; though they did ease the pain a little bit.

Speaking of which, her ankle _ached _terribly_._ All this walking and moving was doing it no good in healing; if anything, it had gotten worse. Much worse. But all things considered, she reckoned she was doing a rather good job of hiding it, if she did say so herself - Malfoy constantly walked ahead of her, anyways, never bothering to look back. How could he notice?

That was good. Don't want to show weakness, especially not around someone like him.

So she continued, stumbling along, until once again Malfoy announced they could stop. He avoided her gaze like always, and reached around to start setting up camp. _How bloody kind of you,_ Hermione muttered in her head. Yeah, she could do that. _Not like I'm dying back here or anything, lousy git._ She'd noticed her internal mutterings had become more and more littered with curses over the days. That wasn't very ladylike at all. But really, who gives a damn.

She sighs with relief and practically collapses face-first on the rock, seriously considering the very appealing idea of falling asleep right there, when a loud crack pierces the air like a bullet.

Malfoy twists around to face her, his eyes clearly alarmed when they meet hers, and her own panic and confusion are met equally.

Hermione spins quickly towards the sound, searching frantically for its source -

And in front of her is the snatcher, Scabior, grinning like a loon. There are around 6 or 7 other snatchers standing ominously behind him.

Fear and panic seize her system - she can't help but be frozen in place. Her mind is screaming at her legs, begging them, for god's sake _move or you're going to die!_ but they would not - could not - listen.

Someone tugs sharply on her arm, kicking her senses back into high gear. Wheeling around, she faintly registers that it was Malfoy who had grabbed her, before they start moving.

Then they're running.

And they're running, and it's like being with Harry and Ron all over again, but so much worse because it's _not them,_ she's alone, no one's going to help her -

A curse smashes a tree to splinters less than a foot to her left, and she forces her legs to move faster. Of course the pain in her ankle feels likes knives cutting through her every step, but stopping is just not an option - not if she wants to live. So she refuses to give into the pain.

The adrenaline helps some, pushing the fire through her veins that blocks out the more immediate hurt, urging her forward. But it doesn't fix everything.

Hermione's vaguely aware that Malfoy is running beside her, but at this point she's far to occupied with getting away from the snatchers to worry about him turning against her. So they just keep running. At some moment or another she remembers her wand, and reaches into her sleeve to pull it out, defend herself -

It's empty.

Malfoy still had her wand.

_Bloody hell._

Being careful not to trip, she followed as Malfoy did his best to lead the chase off the rocky plateau and into the nearby woods. Of course, now they have to avoid branches and rocks and everything else - but they've got a better chance now.

Except for the fact that neither Hermione nor Malfoy were in any condition to be running like this; they had spent all day treking what must have been fifteen, twenty miles with injuries. And, clearly, these snatchers had spent long enough planning this attack to be well rested and prepared.

Jinxes and curses rebound, fly by and swirl all around them, filling the forest with explosions and smokes.

All Hermione can think of is some way to get her wand back - she was sure Malfoy wouldn't mind giving it back now that they were running for their bloody lives, but she couldn't exactly stop and ask politely, now, could she? She would have to think of some other way.

Rebounding curses echo around them, creating smashes and bangs that go straight through Hermione's ears and resonate around her skull, but everything seems eerily quite. Her heartbeat fills everything until nothing else matters but being _alive,_ and she feels it so much right now, she is so _alive -_

Malfoy falls beside her as a body-binding curse hits his back. Hermione almost turns back to help him, but can't bring herself to, the primal need to escape is just too much -

So she doesn't. She keeps running.

000

Shit.

The oath, mingled with others, is the only thing going through Draco's mind when he caught sight of the snatchers. He'd frozen in shock a moment, his mind whirring and twirling, trying to figure out how they'd been found - but stopped by some unknown accord when he saw the way Scabior was looking at Granger. He looked at her like - well, like she was something to eat. It was disgusting. Enough so that he could snap out of his trance and reach forward to yank Granger out of her own.

Then they're running.

He tries to lead them off the plateau, towards the wood where they would have more cover. Draco ducks quickly to avoid a green jet that whizzed over his head.

Bloody hell, they were trying to kill them.

Draco frantically pulls out his wand, reaching behind him to mutter a stunning spell, satisfied that he had hit his mark by the following _crunch._

He glances over to Granger, not to check on her or anything, even though he had noticed the whole day she'd been wincing as though her foot was in pain or something, just to make sure she wasn't going to trip him to survive or something equally ridiculous.

Her face startles him. It's calm, unnervingly so considering the situation, and her eyes hold a determination so strong it appears almost as though they were on fire.

She stumbles slightly, and she collides with him briefly, her side hitting his with a sharp pang. He keeps an eye on her to make sure she doesn't fall, because he doesn't want to end up falling with her, but she apparently regains her balance and continues undeterred.

Then his back is burning, and he feels his joints lock up into place, and he's falling.

His eyes are still locked on Granger as the body-binding curse brings him down. He sees her eyes flicker to him infintesimally, before returning to their course as though he were only a minor distraction. Then she kept running.

Despite the fact he hadn't really trusted her, and that they were by no means friends, he had been under the impression they were at least amicable aquaintinces by now. So he loathes the betrayal he feels go through him unbidden, knowing it was irrational. Draco was alone.

Well, as alone as one can be until a snatcher wearing far more eyeliner than any man ever should comes and peers over you. Which is an incredibly uncomfortable experience, in case you haven't had the pleasure of having it happen youself and don't know.

A bulky, red-headed snatcher with overgrown teeth and bad body odor problems reaches down and grabs Draco's arms, pinning them against his back. Damn gingers, will he ever meet one who doesn't want him dead?

Evidently not.

The lead snatcher, Draco is fairly certain his name is Scabior, but frankly thinks his name should be Eyeliner-Man considering his choices in apparel, approaches Draco with a gleam in his eye.

"'ello, blondie. Fancy meetin' you here."

Draco can't even glare, his face has been locked into place by the curse. But he hopes his eyes, which follow Scabior as he paces a slow circle, convey his distaste and none of his fear.

Scabior seems to remember Draco's condition and puts on a fake apologetic look.

"Sorry, mate, forgot all about that -"

The snatcher flicks his wand lazily and Draco feels his body relax, or at least he's able to move it again. His first instinct is to snap at the man, threaten him with his father's power; but evidently the snatcher has thought of that.

"Now, don't be stupid, blondie - it was yer father who sent us in the first place." He shakes his finger mockingly, scolding Draco, "So don't go makin' empty threats when you know you ain't got nothin' to back m'up."

Bitterness overcomes Draco as he thinks of his father; he had always had a healthy fear of the man, as every son should, but now there was something more. He had sent these barbarians to _kill_ his own _son._ Anger and hatred well up inside him, threatening to boil over before he could restrain it.

All the while his fight-or-flight instinct is setting in as well; but since the option of flight is apparently no longer available, fighting strategies begin presenting themselves in his mind.

Scabior, who had been continuing on about Draco's prediciment, had caught another snatcher digging through a bag he apparently shouldn't have been digging through. Draco used the moment of distraction to fish through his sleeve for his wand -

But it was gone.

His eyes widen and true panic begins to overwhelm him. Draco was no physical fighter - that's not to say he couldn't hold his own one-on-one, but for god's sake there were seven of them - and without his wand, his only thought was that he was doomed.

He feels the hands gripping Draco's arms behind his back tense as Scabior stuns the lackey whom he had been arguing with. The man flies back and hits a tree with a startling, unnerving crunch. Scabior tucks his wand back into his pocket and saunters over to where Draco is standing. The man behind him forces Draco to his knees as the head snatcher approaches.

"So whot do we do with you, then? We were gonna give ye back to yer father, but that ain't much fun at all." He leaned down so he was eye level with Draco, and the latter could feel the snatcher's reeking breath on his face. Draco wanted to look away, but knew as soon as he did he'd be doomed. The snatcher's eyes narrowed, "See, I ain't too fond of you Malfoys much."

Scabior leaned back and punched Draco across the jaw with as much force as Draco imagined he could muster, meeting his target with a sickening crack. His goonies laughed as Draco felt himself slump forward, the pain overwhelming his senses.

Spots dot his vision and cloud his mind as he feels his cracked, maybe broken, jaw slide out of place. The impact may have loosened a tooth or two as well. He feels the blood well up in his mouth, so Draco figures if he dies now he may as well regain some of his dignity before he goes-

So he spits on Scabior's face.

He watches as the snatcher's pleased expression turns to shock, then disgust, then pure unadulterated _fury_ as he wipes the bloody spit from his face. The knowledge that he was about to face a rather painful, sure to be dragged-out death must have made him a little mad, for Draco couldn't help but laugh as he split into a wide grin.

"Come on, then, eye-liner man. Show me what you've got."

Scabior started towards him, his face twisted and distorted in his rage, fist raised and bloody -

Then a flash, and the snatcher inexplicably fell to the ground. He had been stunned.

The ginger holding his arms to his back fell as well, slumping backwards, thankfully, instead of forwards onto Draco.

The other snatchers grab their wands and look around for the threat furiously, but before they can move a large branch flies from behind them, knocking them to the forest floor, unconcious.

Now Draco is thoroughly confused, and he looks around for his savior. Suddenly he feels a presence behind him, and he turns arond to defend himself when a hand grasps his tightly and he feels them twist on the spot, pulling him with them, and then the unmistakable feeling of being forced through a tight tube and his lungs being emptied-

And darkness.


	6. Chapter 5

**A/N: Sorry, sorry - exams and summatives kept me busy and whatnot. I'll try to be quicker in the future, but no promises.  
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**By the way? No one called me on my pun two chapters ago. I'm disappointed.**

_italics_**_ = memory/dream_  
><strong>

* * *

><p>The light hurt, at first, but Draco's eyes soon adjusted. His jaw hurt like nothing he had experienced in a very long time, and he could feel the blood dripping down the side of his mouth, off his chin.<p>

But then the pain was gone - he felt his jaw slide back into place with a slight click, his teeth re-attach themselves and the blood seemingly dripped now from no source, because any cuts inside his mouth had been healed. Draco moved his mouth around in circles experimentally and was thrilled to find no accompanying pain.

He felt the small hand holding his pull away and heard another set of lungs breathing heavily filled the silence.

Draco waited patiently as he could while the remaining adrenaline and fear ebbed out of his veins. He leaned over, panting, holding himself up with his hands on his knees.

The other voice coughed, then said hoarsely,

"Now we're even."

Draco whipped his head up to meet Granger's eyes.

So it had been her. It was the only logical answer, what with them being the only non-snatchers within a god-knows-how-many-mile radius, but at the same time was not a logical answer at all.

She could have left. Hewould have left. And why not? No point in putting her neck on the line for someone she hated. Draco paused. He supposed that was what he had done for her. He understood, in theory, the hatred of the idea of being in someone's debt and being unable to repay them. Now she knew, and she had.

So now she really _could_ leave.

He winced. That thought really shouldn't hurt so much.

She kept his glance a moment longer before rising to set up the protective enchantments around them. Properly, this time, and quickly.

Suddenly the exhaustion caught up to him and Draco was forced to turn and sit down on the rocky terrain. Holding his hand up to block the light, Draco still found himself squinting to examine his surroundings. Barren, rocky, the type of cold fog that goes right through six layers of clothing and straight into your bones. Scottish.

Glancing back to her, he followed her with his eyes as she paced the slow circle, using his seat as the centre of which they gravitated. Quietly, he murmured,

"Why?"

Without batting an eye, she shot back, "Now we're even, and I feel less guilty about stealing your wand. Not that I should feel guilty in the first place."

Draco froze as she turned and smirked, pulling his wand from her sleeve. She twirled it in her fingers the same way he had taunted her with her own wand. His eyes narrowed and he prepared himself to take it back by force, when she surprised him by softening her smile (only slightly) and tossing it to him in a high arc.

He caught it lazily, the ingrained reflexes of a seeker, despite the suddeness. He stared at it a moment as though it might bite him.

Granger returned to muttering the spells with her own wand, studiously ignoring Draco's obvious look of disbelief. Finally, she snorted and said, "It's yours, stupid - just consider it a gesture ... of good will. One of us has to be the better person."

There was a time when he would have taken that as an invitation to fight, but there was absolutely no venom behind her words that Draco couldn't help but consider it almost teasing. Almost.

He relaxed into the grip of the familiar wand before tucking it back into his sleeve for safekeeping. Draco fell back so his weight rested on his arms, checking around for Granger's little beaded bag with all their posessions and the tent, hopefully she packed it before they were found and had to appara-

"Holy hell, Hermione - you apparated us out of there! You didn't bloody kill yourself, did you?" Draco started, lurching forward as the thought hit him. Before he could stop himself he glanced over her, checking for any renewed or worsened injuries. She looked the same to him, not exactly ship-shape but no worse, thankfully.

She froze, having finished the enchantments, and turned slowly around to face him. Her eyes were clouded, confused, with something else he couldn't place. She stayed silent a moment, apparently studying him, before answering quietly,

"I suppose I survived, clearly. Wouldn't be here if I had, neither would you," she looked away towards the sky, lost in thought, "Really should have thought of that before I did it, though. Just got lucky for once. It's about time luck was on my side."

She kept looking at him funny, and Draco was tempted to check his clothes to see if he had fallen in mud or was particularily bloody or oh god, had something on his _face, _anything at all, but resisted.

He shrugged and muttered in agreement, heaving himself up to help set up the tent. She had pulled the beaded bag out of her sock - he had to admit, that was both a simple and brilliant solution - and was digging through it with renewed vigour. How she managed to run was a whole other question, what with that and her bloody broken ankle -

"Hermione."

He turned at the sound, seeing her still standing in the same place as before. The wind blew a gentle breeze through the clearing, pushing her hair out behind her. She was staring at him like she was trying to interpret a particularily obscure rune. Draco paused, and when she didn't continue began motioning with his hand for her to keep going.

"You called me Hermione. Before."

His hand stopped midair, and his eyes locked in place. Only for a moment - then he inexplicably relaxed.

Huh. So he had. Draco considered the name in his mind, rolling it over his tongue in a hundred different fashions. It wasn't that bad a name, really. Simpler than just referring to her by her surname.

Draco shrugged again and glanced back up to meet her gaze. But she had looked away, her eyes downcast and slight pink colouring her cheeks.

He chuckled once lightly, "I guess I did. Sorry."

"No, it's... alright."

Another, colder wind blew between them indicating the oncoming night. They both jumped and set about preparing camp and setting up a little quicker. But the tension between them that had existed the day before had lightened considerably. It was almost like .. well, they weren't friends, of course not. That would be ridiculous.

But they weren't _not _friends.

* * *

><p>Hermione stepped quietly over and extinguished the candles around the tent by hand; it would be quicker with magic, but wouldn't everything? She appreciated the time, giving herself a simple task to allow her mind to wander.<p>

Malfoy - Draco? she didn't know what she was calling him now, his slip up had seriously confused her vocabulary - had gone to bed about half an hour ago, after a terribly not-very-awkward evening of being not-dead-by-snatchers, which in itself made things awkward. Except it was weird; she could no longer call upon instant animosity for the boy.

Hermione's lips curled downward. This was confusing; after nearly seven years of solid dislike, all of a sudden they were on first-name basis, not trying to kill eachother every other minute? She sighed.

Alright, so she was over-exaggerating. But only a little. This _was _weird, and it was going to take some time to get used to.

But, she thought as she finally curled into bed, she could get used to it. What she needed right now were allies, not more enemies. As her eyelids flickered in the dark, she resolved that she would try. Try to not hate Draco Malfoy anymore.

It was odd. Maybe it was the exhaustion, or the constant pain, or the fact that she was very nearly asleep, but for some reason the idea didn't seem too difficult.

* * *

><p>Memories mixed with fantasy, what's real and what's not becomes inseparable - dreams that are lies wrapped in truth, making them harder to differentiate.<p>

Hermione tosses and turns, her mind weary of the onslaught.

The first memory hits her like a ton a bricks -

_A flash of light, and the image of Harry's dirty and bruised face becoming puffy and distorted until he is unrecognizable._

_The unmistakable sound of knuckles hitting flesh, and the low grunt of pain she heard Ron let out, the only sign of weakness he would allow._

_Being yanked up herself, arms held tightly behind her back despite her thrashing and pulling. The scene continued like reality, every word the same. Scabior approached her, closer than she remembered - his stinking breath filling her lungs. She tried hard not to breath, not to make a sound as his eyes narrowed and he held his wand aloft to strike her -_

_But he was suddenly gone, the arms around her loosened, and a familiar voice leaned in close to her ear, whispering urgently, "Run,"_

_And she spins around, to see, to save Harry and Ron and do as was suggested, but the only thing her eyes register is a flash of blonde hair - then darkness._

Her mind reels, calling up other lost memories from longer ago.

_Ron, Ron - her Ron - shouting and screaming and yelling at Harry, her friend, why? They fight and say things she knows they don't mean, because they're best friends, brothers in all but blood, they don't mean this -_

_But then Ron crosses the line, and Harry strikes. Years of petty arguments, built up jealousy and anger released in the small space of their tent, the rain falling on the tarp but no one is listening. They fight and battle while she screams for them to stop - and they do, but it's no better._

_Because Ron asks her if she's staying, and she says she is. And he doesn't understand, wasn't he listening to what she didn't say; how she paused, her hesitation a plea for him to understand how hard this was, choosing between keeping her word, her friendship, what she thought mattered, and him._

_Didn't he know he would always win, in the end? If he just waited. If he just listened._

_But he's deaf to her silence, and leaves them, Hermione and Harry, alone. Harry, who looks so broken and in pain, but she can't bring herself to comfort him, she can only chase after the man who has broken her heart time and time again, like she always will._

_She stands in the rain, empty in the knowledge that he was gone and wouldn't, couldn't come back._

_And she feels so small, so inconsequential in this massive world, so lost, like a child among giants. She feels so alone._

_A hand takes hers in the rain, and she doesn't bother to look up. Harry's just come to comfort her afterall._

_But the hand is too small to be Harry's, softer, less calloused, fits far too well into her own._

_She still doesn't look up._

Gears whirl and spin in Hermione's sleeping mind, throwing her full force into the next dream.

_Rebounding curses echo around them, creating smashes and bangs that go straight through Hermione's ears and resonate around her skull, but everything seems eerily quite. Her heartbeat fills everything until nothing else matters but being alive, and she feels it so much right now, she is so alive -_

_Malfoy falls beside her as a body-binding curse hits his back. Hermione almost turns back to help him, but can't bring herself to, the primal need to escape is just too much -_

_So she doesn't. She keeps running._

_She runs, and runs until only silence chases her, and something clicks a switch in her head and her feet begin to turn inexplicably back the way she came._

_Treading quietly, Hermione returns towards their captors, seeing them gathered into a clearing. Ducking behind an old oak tree, she peeks around branches in order to get a better view. She can't explain why her stomach drops when she sees they've captured Malfoy._

_She tightly grips the two wands in her palm, suddenly regreting taking his as well when she'd knocked herself into him while they were running and nicked them from his sleeve. She had left him defenseless._

_Hermione watches as a bulky snatcher with hair not dissimilar to Ron's grab Malfoy from behind and force him forward. She watches silently as Scabior approaches him, speaking words she can't hear. He grins and flicks his wand, and Hermione sees Malfoy's limbs visibly relax, released, only to tighten again in a firm display of strength._

_Scabior begins talking, pacing, and Malfoy fumbles around a moment before his skin pales and face drains of all emotion. Her guilt worsens as she watches his fear increase - he's realized he doesn't have his wand. And he's clever enough, he'll realize she took it. He'll hate her. More._

_Scabior loses his temper with another snatcher, throwing a punch square in his jaw. The other man flys, hitting a tree and slumping to the ground._

_Then the head snatcher approaches Malfoy, and the man holding him forces the blonde to his knees. She sees them talk in a silent exchange, before Scabior reaches back and punches Malfoy across the face._

_The sight is so wrong, Hermione can't help but let out a small shriek before covering her mouth tightly with her hands, praying none of them had heard her._

_Her eyes follow Malfoy as he reels back, shakes his head and turns to face Scabior. He seemed to resolve himself, steadying his gaze, before spitting in the lead snatcher's face._

_That's when she started running._

_She stunned the snatchers, grabbed Malfoy and twisted on the spot, the only thought running through her head was getting them out of there alive._

This was right, yes, memory not fantasy - but suddenly her dreams and memories are mixing and twisting more than before, tainted with drops of darkness and then -

_Hermione is back behind the tree, watching the scene replay again._

_Draco is forced to his knees. Scabior approaches again, strikes him in the face again. Malfoy responds, spitting in his face._

_Hermione wants to run forward, like she had, like she would -_

_But her feet won't move. She watches, helplessly as Scabior reaches Malfoy and pummels him in the stomach. Malfoy falls, and the snatcher brings his foot down onto his face, into his ribs, smashing and hitting any part of Malfoy he can reach, but still the man does not cry out, even as the blood flows freely from his skin -_

_And Hermione is thrashing, pulling, trying to move, to get there, to help him, please, Draco!_

She screams, and the sound echoes through the night.


	7. Chapter 6

**A/N: I've got no excuses, this chapter was just annoying to write, so I kept putting it off. And it's even a fairly short chapter!  
>My baaad.<br>But stuff happens. That's progress, right?  
><strong>

**Disclaimer: Still owning nothing.**

**Apologies for spelling/grammatical errors. Lack of spell check.  
><strong>

* * *

><p>He woke up to the screams.<p>

Draco's eyes shot open and he instinctively jumped up from his seat and drew his wand. He shook his head to clear it, eyes searching around the room for the danger. His vision found her thrashing around on her cot, and it took him a moment to realize she was having a nightmare.

Draco rushed over and knelt beside Hermione's cot, hands fluttering uselessly beside her - he knew never to wake a sleepwalker, but did this count? Her face was flushed and sweating, the shine of tear tracks cutting through the dirt on her face. And she kept screaming; screams so raw and heartbreaking, Draco needed them to stop else his stomach would knot.

He shook her shoulder gently, "Hermione. Hermione, wake up."

She threw her head back and let out another wail, her arms splaying out around her sides. Draco shook her arm, desparation seeping into his voice, "Granger, c'mon, wake up. You're just dreaming, it isn't real." She let out a low whimper, rolling onto her side away from him. Her arms lowered and breathing began to even out. Draco exhaled in relief, leaving his hand resting on her arm. "That's right, it's not real."

He watched as she continued to calm down, relief seeping through his own veins and an odd sense of comfort overtaking him. Once more, he whispered quietly to her,

"Come on, Hermione. Wake up."

Her breath came in long, shallow inhales and her eyes, which had been moving frantically under her closed lids, went still. Thin pillows and sheets ruffled as she shifted her position, altering the angle her body was in. After a moment she turned, rolling so she faced Draco. Her eyes opened slowly, brown irises meeting blue-grey. They stayed like that a moment, just watching each other, until Hermione said quietly,

"What's happened?"

Draco hesitated, "You were having a nightmare."

Her eyes went hazy and she seemed to remember. She averted her gaze, ducking her head as a pink blush coloured her cheeks. Draco watched curiously until he realized his hand was still holding her upper arm.

Something dark on her forearm caught his attention. He let his hand slide down until it lightly gripped her wrist, and flipped her arm over to see the flat of the side. His eyes widened involuntarily and he hissed in horror.

Hermione instantly yanked her arm away, holding it tight to her chest, but Draco had seen enough to know what it was. Bellatrix had left her mark, loud and clear. A dark, slowly helaing scar covered the length of her pale arm, etched out in deep cuts. The skin was curled and red, looking almost fresh. The cuts spelt out clearly what Bellatrix thought of Hermione, of what he should think of her. But didn't.

He didn't think he would be able to say 'Mudblood' anymore.

Draco glanced down and was surprised to see his hands curled into fists, shaking. His whole body was vibrating with supressed rage. If he looked in a mirror, he was certain he would find his eyes to be burning. He pulled his head away, ashamed.

A small hand reached out and took his own, easing it out of a fist. Draco looked up, meeting Hermione's eyes. Her expression made him want to cry, and he very nearly did. It was everything he needed, but nothing he deserved. He whispered slowly,

"I'm sorry."

She gave a small smile. "I know."

She had looked at him with forgiveness.

* * *

><p>The kettle squealed in increased intensity as the water boiled overtop the old stove. Hermione had chosen to make tea the muggle way, if nothing else then for the comfort of ritual.<p>

She remembered the dreams clearly, more so than she would care to. They had surprised and scared her, and more over confused her. She couldn't understand how Draco had ended up incorporated into all her memories the way he had, the way he was. If she looked back, he was suddenly there; beside her on the hogwarts express; sitting with her in class; even when she was just a kid, before she knew anything about the wizarding world. That's how she knew her memories weren't right - Draco and the muggle world couldn't coexist peacefully.

It was just ... strange. Disconcerning. No, she means disconcerting. Or is that even a word? Oh god, now her vocabulary is slipping. Something really must be wrong.

She shook her head, and pulled the kettle off. Pouring the water into two mugs and throwing in the tea bags, she balanced the cups in her hands, trying careful not to spill any. Draco, who had after their 'conversation' ended had taken to the corner chair with a book, looked up lazily and mildly surprised as she presented him with a mug.

"Thanks," he murmured, taking the drink gratefully. She just nodded and curled up into the adjascent sofa. Turning back to his book, Draco found himself unable to focus on the words once again. So instead, he took to casually peering over the edge of the book at the girl sitting across from him.

Hermione looked tired, but that was only to be expected. The dark rings that circled her eyes had been worse, but Draco was certain they had also seen better days. Her usually frizzy hair was fluffed up around her head at awkward angles, causing him to chuckle lightly under his breath. She gave him a strange look, but he averted his eyes before she could catch him staring. He saw in his peripherials as she stared at him a while, a faint blush colouring her cheeks, until she finally looked away. Draco smiled slightly, and was pleased to find he could return to his novel.

They sat in a surprisingly amiable silence until a thought occured to Hermione. She felt rather stupid for not thinking of it sooner, but resisted the urge to slap herself upside the head. Setting the cup down on the table, she jolted up and began rummaging around the tent.

Draco watched as her searching grew more drastic, pillows and chairs thrown haphazardly around the room, before intervening, "What are you looking for?" He frowned. Maybe he could help her look - no, don't be silly.

She paused, throwing him a glance, then returned to her search. Hermione rummaged a moment more before muttering, "Floo Powder."

Draco's stomach lurched. Quickly, he said, "You can't possibly be thinking of leaving. We," he stopped suddenly, then continued deliberatly, "You've got nowhere to go where they won't find you." To his inexplicable relief, she rolled her eyes and snapped, "I know that. I want to talk to Harry and Ron."

It was Draco's turn to roll his eyes. "You've got to be kidding. You're putting your own neck on the line to have a little chat with your friends?"

"I don't expect you to understand."

"Good, because I don't. You'll have to explain it to me."

She spun around and threw her hands above her head, shouting exhasparatedly, "They don't know where I am, if I'm okay, if I'm even alive! What would they think, seeing what they did that night? Even if they did see you save me, what would that explain? I need to talk to them. If I can't talk to them directly, I'll talk to someone who can."

He just shook his head, "It's too dangerous."

Hermione's eyes narrowed, and she lowered her arms. In her right hand she held the object of her searching - a small flowerpot of Floo Powder.

"It's not up to you."

She marched over to the small fireplace in the corner Draco hadn't noticed before, and he leaped up to follow her. Sticking his hands deep into his pockets, he stood warily behind her and she knelt before the grates. She lit a fire quickly, using the magical method as opposed to muggle. Hermione grabbed a handful of green powder, spilling it over the floor.

Throwing it into the fire, the two watched as the flames turned their eerie green colour. Grinning wildly, Hermione stuck her head into the fire, shouting "The Burrow!"

She got the strange, familiar feeling of her head spinning and falling while her body stood firmly still. Then she saw the living room of the Weasley's house begin to take shape. "Mr. Weasley?" She called, the room in front of her still coming into form, "Molly? Ron?" Hermione saw a figure in the room - three figures, two of them with bright red hair coming towards the fireplace.

Smiling wider, Hermione started to call again - but her voice caught in her throat. Her eyes went from the shocked, concerned faces of a strained Arthur Weasley, holding the arms of his wife, Molly, to the third figure standing off to the side. A figure with grey, narrow eyes and dark slicked back hair.

The third figure was Pius Thicknesse.

He drew back his wand, approaching the fireplace with hand outstretched. Hermione shrieked, paralyzed by fear, before she was pulled back quickly by two arms wrapped around her waist.

She collapsed backwards, returned to the drafty cold tent, on top of Draco. He looked over at her, concerned, "What happened, what's going on?"

Hermione glanced over her shoulder, eyes full of apology and regret, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, you were right - we need to go. Quickly." Draco stared at her a moment, but listened to her immediately. Dirt and dust filled the air as he pulled them up, helping Hermione by the arms, and set away from the fireplace. Draco drew his wand and strolled out of the tent, throwing his stowed book onto the table with a loud _smack_. Hermione followed close behind.

With a wave of his wand, the tent disassembled into its compact form, then disappeared into the depths of Hermione's little beaded bag. Hermione clasped the bag shut and shoved it down her sock, finally glancing up to meet his gaze. He was staring at her determinedly. "You'll tell me what happened when we're safe?" She nodded, and Draco said, "Alright, let's go -"

Deafening crashes and _cracks _sounded as a dozen cloaked men apparated around them. Hermione let out a high shriek, instinctivly clutching Draco's hand. The men around them sent a series of curses towards the pair, and the two could barely block them all in time. Hermione recognized some of them as Ministry officials, Draco recognized the rest as Death Eaters.

"Get them!" One shouted, sending a killing curse at Draco's chest. The blond's eyes widened as he realized he couldn't move out of the way. Fear clenched his veins as he watched, helpless, death approach his heart. Hermione took a chance and spun them on the spot - darkness took them, the air leaving her chest, and she could only hope they had gotten out in time.

Light met her eyes, Hermione blinked once, twice, to adjust, when dread and terror filled her chest.

The hand in hers was limp.


	8. Chapter 7

**Yep, still mixing books+films. I've a preference for the books, but some of the stuff from the movies fits conveniently with what I'd like to use. So I'll just keep my mixy-mixing!**

**Enjoy! Review! Watermelon!**

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><p>Hermione tried very hard not to panic. It didn't work.<p>

"Draco, come on, don't -" She caught him as he stumbled and fell forward, his hand still loose in hers. Grabbing his shoulders, she eased him down so he laid carefully on the ground. "Draco, please, stop this, you can't be dead, we discussed this," Hermione raced, feeling the hot sting of tears behind her eyes. "Please, Draco, be okay -" Gripping his hand tighter, she forced herself to look at his face, dreading what lifelessness might greet her.

He stared at her blankly and blinked, saying deadpan,"Pleased as I am for your concern, I can't help but feel it's a little unnecessary?"

Hermione stared at him in disbelief. Her mind, which operated at an average approximate rate of 106.8 kilometers per hour, came to a dead halt.

But.

What.

His hand!

He hadn't been moving!

The bloody idiot. He was a prick, a dingo - The arrogant, insolent git! The absolute, ".. utter and complete prat, you blond stupid little _ferret!_" She wrenched her hand away, which she noticed with a flush had still been holding his with a death grip, screeching every profanity and foul name she could come up with. "What was that! You made me think you were _dead, _who _does that!"_ He stared at her, dumbfounded, before starting to talk slowly, trying to reassure her,

"Hermione, what are you talking abo -"

"Don't you _Hermione _me! How could you! Your bloody arm was limp, you weren't moving, what was I supposed to think!"

"Hermione, _Hermione!"_ Draco grabbed her arm as she paced, stopping her mid-rant and spinning her to face him. Gripping her shoulders, he was careful to look her straight in the eye. She glared at him, feeling nothing but absolute contempt for the rat. "I'm sorry if I worried you. I was stunned, it seems, but it was the instant after we apparated - my arm must've just been an after effect. I am sorry, really."

Hermione stood there, throat sore from yelling, panting and glaring at the blond stationed in front of her. She shook off his hands, which he pulled away willingly, and closed her eyes. Slowly, she took a deep breath, trying to calm herself down. Going back to a technique her parents taught her as a child, she held her breath and counted to ten.

_One, Two, Three_

Calm down. It's okay, they're okay. They made it out alright, she isn't hurt, Draco is alive.

_Four, Five_

The ministry can't trace them now, not on that short notice - neither can the death eaters, they can't find us yet. But the Weasleys...

_Six, Seven_

She's put them in terrible danger, popping up in the fireplace like that. Pius Thicknesse, how was she to know he would be there? No, this was no one's fault but hers, she had given no notice - the Weasleys had every reason to think her dead! Draco had warned her, tried to persuade her not to do it...

_Eight, Nine_

And he was right. But even with that being said, he got them out of there alive, without blaming her for it. And she was calling him all these awful things, just because of a misunderstanding on her own part. He even apologized, but none of it was even his fault, it was all her mistake -

_Ten._

Oh, bother.

Hermione let out the breath in a heavy sigh, resigning herself. She opened her eyes and brought them to meet his gaze sheepishly. Draco was staring at her with concern, and slight reminants of confusion. Not a sliver of anger or blame. That didn't do much to help her guilt.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, tears springing back in the corners of her eyes. "I'm being so stupid, this is all my fault, and I'm just taking it out on you, I'm _sorry, _Draco -"

"No, no, Hermione, it's alright," He mutters, blushing. Draco, among his many flaws, was terrified of a crying woman. Patting her shoulder awkwardly, he drew his ever-present hankerchief from his pant pocket and handed it to her. She took it greatfully and pressed it to her face. He took the moment to turn awkwardly and set about placing the proper enchantments and protective spells around them.

Watching, Hermione drew out her little beaded bag out her sock, fishing around by hand for the familiar feel of the canvas tent. She handed it to him, looking determindly away from his face, and blushed lightly when their fingers brushed. The tent is up after a flick of his wand, and Draco leans over, holding the entrance open for her. She hurried in, Draco following close behind.

They reached their respective seats, Hermione curling into a ball in a plush chair, Draco sitting relaxed on the left half of the loveseat. She had finally stopped crying, thankfully, but Hermione kept the hankerchief pressed lightly to her cheek. It smelt pleasant; like peppermint, oranges, and something sweet she couldn't place. It was comforting.

From the corner of her eye she saw Draco shift awkwardly in his seat. He continued like this a while, alternating between looking distractedly around the room avoiding her gaze, and meeting her eyes with uneasiness, until he finally blurted out, "Riding a broom."

She stared at him. He answered her gaze like what he said _wasn't_ competely out of the blue and made perfect sense to their conversation (or lack there of). Blinking, she said, "I'd rather spend the day cleaning doxys out of curtains. Do you have a point?"

He snorted quietly, managing to make the menial mannerism into something high-class. Proof of his classical upraising. "That was a bit random, wasn't it? It's my first memory. Or at least, my first real, good one. I was three or four, I think. My great aunt gave it to me as a birthday present - my mother didn't approve, thought the things were bloody death traps. Still does, I reckon." He paused, smiling fondly at the thought of his mother. Hermione listened curiously, confused but interested.

"My father ignored her, having me try it out that day. Mother ended being right - I ran straight into a wall. Ended up in St. Mungos for a week with a concussion. One thing we never have found a magical fix for. But in those few moments I was up in the air, it was the happiest I ever remember being. Just... free."

Hermione laughed faintly, imagining a tiny, chubby Draco zooming around on a broomstick. The thought was so obscure, so unlike the smooth blond she had come to know. Draco smiled back slightly, apparently pleased she had stopped crying. The story brought a memory of her own to the forefront of Hermione's mind, and before she knew it she was talking. "I got my first real bicycle when I was six. Bicycles are a muggle means of transportation, it's got two wheels and you pedal it to move," she explained, giggling at Draco's clueless expression.

"My parents bought it for me, a gift for first year of primary school. I was so pleased, I went out to the library that day, and took out every book about bicycles I could find." Hermione snorted at the memory, "Some things never change. My parents just laughed about it, they always teased me that it took a month before I actually tried the thing out. And after all that reading, I was so confident; I still fell flat on my face."

Draco laughed, gentle and genuine, and the sound sent a warmth through Hermione. She smiled, pleased, and he returned with his own.

* * *

><p>Somehow, Draco reckoned it must have been during the second hour of talking, Hermione ended up sitting opposite him on the loveseat. Her legs curled up in such a way her knees rested against his, her feet tucked in beneath her. She had told him more about her muggle childhood, and to his own surprise he found it fascinating. Particularily the idea of dentist - people paid to fiddle around with your teeth, stick their hands in your mouth. Draco worried after when he asked incredulously if that was even sanitary, but Hermione had just laughed and assured him it was, shooting him a toothy grin as proof. The smile made his legs wobble, for reasons beyond his understanding, and Draco was thankful that they were firmly seated.<p>

He had told her, editing out the more unpleasant parts, about his upbringing, the magical upraising and manners nailed into him since birth. She listened, not saying much, but Draco could tell she wasn't just being polite in listening - she asked quiet questions, laughing and looking shocked at all the right moments. She seemed to find the bits about his science particularily interesting; he had fiddled with muggle chemistry as a kid. He had left out the part where his father had found his experiments and thrown a fit for 'bothering with the muggle nonsense'.

Draco hadn't talked to anyone like this since... well, for as long as he could remember. He quite liked it.

Inevitably, they ended up talking about Hogwarts. Draco told short stories about the first time he saw the castle, his first classes, little things - careful to avoid anything that might offend her. They hadn't exactly gotten on best terms in those days, after all. Hermione spoke endlessly about the castle, the library - how she loved that library - but more than anything, about Potter and Weasley.

Whenever their names came up in one of her stories, her voice went softer, more tender, and her eyes faded slightly; as though she could see the events she was describing right before her very eyes. For some reason, this sent a pang through Draco's chest. It was almost as though he wished they _had _gotten along in those days, to have gone along with all these amazing adventures she describes, how he would very much like to be remembered by Hermione with such fondness and caring.

It took him a moment to realize they had reached a comfortable silence. She grinned tiredly from across the seat, and for a moment it seemed as if there was one more thing Draco had to say. But he couldn't for the life of him figure out what.

The moment passed, and by silent agreement the two rose and went to their respective beds. The instant Draco's head hit the pillow, he fell into a long and comfortable sleep, the best he'd had in a very long time.

* * *

><p>The week passed in peace, the pair moving camp every day as a precaution; but they faced no trouble. After the first night, the two had taken to talking every evening. They ended up going further back in their lives, coming up with memories and stories they had forgotten they even had. Mostly, they just spent the time enjoying each other's company, ocassionally accompanied by a cup of tea.<p>

So that evening as the two sat on the loveseat, Hermione tapping out the newly re-discovered radio for the password, it was no different than any other. Yet.

In between guesses, Draco and Hermione exchanged stories and debated about Herbology; Hermione argued the merits of the course, while Draco thought it should only be necessary through third year, just the basics. They argued without malice, still laughing when the other would say something obscure or silly.

They both let out a small jolt when the radio's crackle stopped abruptly, Hermione turning and staring at it, surprised. After a few seconds, a familar voice came on, just finishing saying,

_"- something to keep the moods high; here's an old favourite. Keep each other safe. Keep faith."_

A slow, crackling old song you might imagine playing out a gramaphone ages ago came quietly out the radio. Hermione turned and grinned slightly, saying, "I guess _Wulfric _was the right guess, after all. Strange of them to be playing music, but they're right, it should keep people's moods up -"

Draco didn't answer, and Hermione faltered under his stare, going silent. He was watching her intently, expression indeiscernable. She watched as he rose, approached her, and held out his hand. Hermione froze, not able to bring herself to look away. He didn't say anything, but she got the idea. Taking his hand gently, she stood, bringing her other hand up to his shoulder.

He pulled them back, one hand resting lightly on her waist, the other guiding them as they turned and swayed in time with the music. His warm fingers curled lightly over hers, holding her hand as though something delicate. She smiled as he twirled her around, curled hair fanning out from her face. He grinned, spinning them in circles and humming along quietly. They danced clumsily, not caring how it looked, only enjoying the peaceful moment away from the rest of the world. She laughed as he pulled back and stumbled, making her lurch forward and forcing him to grab her waist to keep her from falling. They paused. The music played quietly, ever-present in the background, but neither of them were really listening anymore. They just watched each other, grey eyes into brown.

Draco opened his mouth to say something, the same feeling he had the first night they talked coming back to him, that need to say that _something_. But the music came to an abrupt end and a unfamiliar, young voice came onto the radio. Whoever it was was speaking clumisly with excitement clear in his voice, stopping dead whatever Draco might have said -

_Lightning has struck, repeat, Lightning has struck!_


	9. Chapter 8

**A/N: Why, hello there.  
>Been a while! <strong>**Sorry Sorry I know I'm awful, it's been too long, but in my defense, I do have a vaguely reasonable excuse. Y'know. Out of the country and all that.**

**But I digress. Back now! And look, it's even a chapter where stuff happens! Plot development! Who'd a thunk!  
>... Yeah, it's short. Deal with it, it's been a while, I'm rusty.<br>**

**I'll stop now. Enjoy! Review! Eat all your greens!  
><strong>

**(Despite numerous annoying letters to the prime minister, I still do not own Harry Potter. Y'gotta admit, if I did, things might've turned out a little different.)**

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><p>The voice repeated the message once, twice more in frantic excitement before coming to an abrupt stop. Static fills the air, loud and imposing - then silence.<p>

The two stay frozen in place, still holding each other at arm's length, minds whirring with the process of new information. A cold wind wafts through the air, jolting them back to reality. Hermione's eyes widen and she pulls back, gasping, "Harry," at the same time Draco said quietly, "Hermione."

She spins around, hair flying wildly over her face, eyes blazing. He is deceptively calm, arms still outstretched around where she had stood a moment before. He lowers them cautiously, speaking slowly, the same measured tone as though talking to a wild animal, "Hermione, think about this."

"What is there to think about? Harry is safe. He's at Hogwarts. He was _right._"

"You can't just waltz into Hogwarts, Hermione, you're a fugitive!"

"Harry is the most wanted wizard in Britain, he got in, and he _needs me._"

"Think of everything that could go wrong! He's important, Hermione, I'm not going to bother trying to deny that, but it's just not worth it. It's not worth you."

"Just because you're a - a coward doesn't mean I have to be. Not now."

Draco flinches, only slightly, but Hermione notices. She knows that was a low blow, that he is by no means a coward after all they had gone through, but he just wasn't listening. Thinking of Harry, she puts as much venom as she can into her words,

"I'm going, Draco. I don't need you with me."

"I won't leave until you make me."

"Go."

Draco sighs, his arms folded. His eyes are squinted in frustration, one hand covering his brow. He doesn't move. Hermione watches him defensively, ready to fight any battle he'll start. Draco lets out a long breath, his voice mingled with air, "Please, Hermione. Don't do this. We're safe right now, we're - I'm happy. Happier than I've been in a long time. I can't watch you go out to die, I just can't. Please don't make me do that."

A raindrop, unseasonal, drops on the roof of the tent, breaking the silence. _plink._

The two lock eyes - one pair pleading, the other resolute. Cold.

There's a crack of thunder, and suddenly they're in a downpour. The echoes of rain crashing against the tent is almost deafening, but Draco can hear her as if she's shouted, each word cold as ice,

"Then don't look."

Hermione turns, snatches up her wand, and makes as though to go out into the storm. A firm hand grips her wrist, keeping her in place. She turns, furious, ready to hex him off; but Draco's wand isn't raised. He isn't even looking at her. His gaze is lowered, his voice quiet.

"Not alone." he sighs, "Come on, let's go save Potter from whatever bloody problem he's gotten himself into this time." The words are as thoughtless as Draco ever is speaking about Harry, but his voice is weak.

Hermione freezes, surprised. The rain seems quieter now, a calming presence. Draco's grip slackens on her wrist, but before it can slip off, Hermione takes his hand in her own. It fits the same as it had in her dream - slender, surprisingly soft despite the few calluses, shaped perfectly to her own. The long fingers wrap around hers tentatively, and she gives them a reasurring squeeze.

Draco lifts his eyes to meet hers. She smiles slightly, and pulls them forward.

* * *

><p>The night is cold and the wind unforgiving, but Hermione's hand is warm in his own, so Draco doesn't say anything. They pack the tent quickly, stowing it in the furthest depths of Hermione's forever useful beaded bag. Both of them know it's the last time they'll use it.<p>

Her hair swirls around her face, almost black in the dark of the night, obscuring her face from view. Not knowing if he'll live through the next few hours, an overwhelming desire to just _see _her once more overtakes Draco - he reaches over with his free hand and tucks the stray hair behind her ear, holding it there. She faces him, her gaze matching the intensity of his own. They don't say anything, and after a moment his hand drops, and they just stand facing eachother.

Wordless, they apparate, and the nothingness takes them.

A sickening shriek echoes through their ears, drowning out any other sounds around them. Hermione thinks quicker than Draco, and pulls them around a wall just as a Death Eater in a black cloak appears around the corner, "'Putting the cat out' like hell! Not twice in one night! SOMEONE'S HERE, FOLLOWING POTTER! SPREAD OUT!"

Series of black cloaks follow out from behind the shouting Death Eater, disappearing into surrounding alleys. Hermione pulls them into an empty one and dashes forward, looking for cover.

"Where are we?" Draco hisses.

"Hogsmeade."

"I thought Potter was in Hogwarts?"

"He is," she whispers exhasparatedly, "We can't get in that quick. If you would just read _Hogwarts: A History_, you would know -"

"That you can't apparate within Hogwarts grounds, I know, I know. I can read, believe it or not."

Despite the ridiculous level of danger they were in, Hermione manages to turn and look at Draco, appearing both vaguely annoyed and a bit impressed. Draco, wondering if Potter or Weasley had _ever_ actually read anything at all to cause the girl such tired patience, was just a little bit pleased.

A Death Eater's shout echoes loudly close behind them, and they quicken their pace. Ducking through and around objects and alcoves, they can't seem to shake the dark cloaks growing nearer. They sprint wordlessly, adreneline and fear the last things that fuel them. Draco feels Hermione's hand tighten, and squeezes back in what he hopes is reassurance, safe in the thought that at least he isn't alone.

"_Girl_! Over here!" A strained whisper calls to them from a doorway off to the left. Without stopping to think if this was at all a good idea, they throw themselves in and allow the stranger to bolt the door behind them. The two stand there, catching their breath, as the man casts a series of quiet spells on the door locks.

The room they've entered is damp and poorly lit. From what little light cast about the room, Draco can just make out the dark walls, sparcely decorated save for one giant portait of a young girl hanging above the fireplace. She watches them curiously from her frame as Hermione and Draco step cautiously through the room.

All the while, the stranger finishes whatever he was working on and comes towards them.

He turns into the light, and Hermione and Draco finally get a good look at him. They had ended up in the old pub The Hog's Head, and the man who saved them was the equally old barkeeper. A ragged greying beard, uncared for clothes, and the most striking blue eyes were all that Draco really noticed. Hermione, on the other hand, let out a small gasp, and her eyes widen. "You're Aberforth," she says, surprise and realization colouring her voice.

The blue eyes narrow as the take in Draco, zeroing in on his hand still clutching Hermione's protectively.  
>Turning his gaze onto Draco, Aberforth growls, "And you're a Malfoy."<p> 


End file.
